Possessed Darkness And The Last And Final Move

Chapter 1: The Road Vanished! (Teaser)

DAY 45...

Chills. Shivers. Misty sighs. Chris sat on the cold steel chair behind a casual wooden table and an empty chair in front of him. At least that's what he could make out in that four by four interrogation room. Above him to his right, a broken window pane sent in cold howls of air streaming into the room forming foggy ice molds on the window rods. He gave the window a glance as he rubbed his hands trying to warm himself up, blowing hot misty air to his clenched hands. Muddy as they were. From his appearance, one could say that he had been working in a pig sty. Tattered clothes. Puffy and shaggy hair. His whole body was covered in dirt. He swayed back and forth from time to time nervously waiting as his feet repetitively tapped the ground. If a priest  could look at this boy, he would make out that one of the demons possessing his pigs had shifted to his body. He had the face of a killer. His eyes drained of all the tears in them. Red as they were.

This was all I could tell from the CCTV feed I was watching all this time. I glanced at my partner, Carl who was busy trying his best to stabilize the static distortion of the station's outdated monitors. Or maybe it was just the freaking cold weather. I took my file as I exited the room.

I stepped into the interrogation room. A middle-aged detective, depicting from my casual cheap suit, a folder with a federal logo in my hand. One could tell my job just by spotting me from a mile. At least that's what I had always wanted to do; To interrogate people, get to scrutinize and patronize the crap out of every statement said.

Judging from the sudden shift in Chris' dirt filled comfort as I entered, it was certain my entrance had startled him almost falling off his chair. I placed the file on the table as I took my seat. Chris was still facing down, counting or mumbling about silent words from his mouth, it seemed like a stress relieving tactic. Or I chose to believe so. I leant back trying to study him for a moment, putting the famous detective statement into action 'Your silence tells your interrogator a lot'

"Christopher Turner, is it?" I presumed after a short moment, leaning forward to grab Chris' attention. No response. Chris sat there. Pacing about his chair.

"My name is detective Frank Holland", I acquainted myself though it didn't sound much of an interest to the young lad.

"Guess we'll pass on the obvious questions then, wanna tell me what happened?" I continued trying to establish a conversation atmosphere of which Chris didn't seem interested in indulging either.

Seeing that I couldn't get much from this young lad, I decided to look at him instead trying to uncover what was patronizing him.

The boy was still unresponsive. Still stress mumbling. I looked at his legs, still pacing, his fingers, counting each other, his head still facing down. I tried to read his body language if a part could tell me something, but it was to no success.

I turned to the file, perusing through each page gradually glancing to see if Chris was making contact. I read through his file, his age, I learnt he was twenty one and born in the coastal side of Santa Monica, California to a family of a professor and a nurse. He had one sibling, an older brother, Shawn. And that Chris was quite the silent one, the type to keep much to himself. Perhaps that's the reason he hasn't talked by now, but someway I knew I had to get him to talk.

I took out a few photos and presented them simultaneously on the table spreading them in front of Chris. Five teenagers, all murdered in cold blood. Body parts of one ripped beyond recognition, seemed to be of a girl, Shelly. A head of another, a boy, stacked up on a tree branch, Bilsky. A girl pierced with a tree branch with her insides hanging out, Valerie. One with a metal ply plunged through his head, Mike. And the last one seemed to have died from natural causes or what seemed like a profusely bleeding wound, Shawn. Two were past photos of one teenage girl (Ashley) and a boy (Gael) in their happy early teenage lives, deducing that their bodies were still to be unearthed. Or never to be found.